Mail Order Brat Page 3

  “I think Annika just hasn’t had much to eat lately.”

  Mary’s face crumpled. “That’s so sad. She’s so pretty.”

  Like most of the women in the parish, Mary had never known a day’s hunger or a day’s true discontent. They were the privileged, and though they had warm hearts and generous spirits, they didn’t understand what it really meant to be deprived.

  “How’s John?” Steven changed the subject.

  Mary made a face and rubbed her left rear cheek. “Grumpy. He’s always grumpy before he goes away.”

  “Is he grumpy, or is he reminding you to be good in his absence?”

  “I’m always good when he’s gone.”

  “Sometimes you are,” Steven smiled. “I appreciate you coming over. It was really nice of you.”

  Mary nodded and smiled knowingly. “Are you going to keep her?”

  “She’s not a pet, Mary.”

  “I know that,” Mary said, scrubbing the pan. “But she’s pretty and she’s all alone and she’s got nobody to take care of her…”

  “She’s only been here five minutes. That’s a bit soon to be making long-term plans. Let’s just get her through a nap, shall we?”

  “I don’t think that’s going to be easy,” Mary said doubtfully.

  “Why not?”

  “Because she’s climbing the fence.”

  Steven looked out the kitchen window and saw what Mary saw, Annika’s blue-clad frame ascending the garden fence.

  “Darn it!”

  He ran out after her.

  “Annika!”

  There was no response at all. She just kept climbing. Slowly and rather ineffectually, her foot lifting for the lower bar, but missing it on each attempt. He took her by the shoulders, but she just kept moving.

  “Annika!”

  She looked at him with expressionless eyes. “Potatoes,” she said in her adorable accent.

  “Potatoes?”

  “We need more potatoes.”

  He realized that she wasn’t running away. She was asleep. Sleepwalking.

  “Come back to bed,” he said gently, pulling her away from the fence. She resisted for a moment, then fell back against him.

  “Bed of potatoes,” she murmured, slumping against his chest. She was asleep again, properly asleep, a dead weight in his arms. Steven carried her back to the house and back to bed, smiling to himself. She was more than a handful. She was an armful. Two armfuls in fact.

  He placed her back in the bed, put the covers over her, and tucked her in. She stirred a little in her sleep, but did not wake. He left the room, leaving the door a little bit ajar so he would hear if she got up again.

  “Sleepwalking,” he explained to Mary, who by that time was finishing up the dishes. She was a good little housekeeper, and a sweet girl. John was lucky.

  “Ohh,” Mary said. “That makes sense. She’s probably upset. That can make sleep-walking worse.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Steven picked up a towel and started helping her with the drying up. “You think she needs something for it?”

  In spite of her simple demeanor and bubbly personality that led most people to believe that Mary was a few pies short of a bake sale, Mary was not only a doctor, but a very good one.

  “I think she needs a stable home life before any medications,” Mary said. “Although a checkup wouldn’t hurt. I was serious about the worming. If she came from Russia, she might have some parasites or diseases we don’t often see here in the States.”

  Steven nodded. “I’ll drop her down to your office tomorrow. You want to spend some time on the computer now?”

  “Chickenville?” Mary looked up hopefully.

  “For an hour. No more.”

  “Yessir!” Mary beamed and made her way to the PC that sat in the lounge.

  Steven retired to his office to do some work. As he sat down, he realized that the house felt full, which was odd. He spent a lot of time working in the community, but his home was usually empty—except for when John went away and Mary stayed, of course, but those trips were becoming less frequent and Mary didn’t fill up the place the same way Annika did. Or maybe she just didn’t fill up as much space in his head.

  He needed to speak with the little Russian runaway, learn more about her. She was probably going to need legal counsel if she wanted to avoid deportation—which she apparently did, seeing as she’d taken to living on the streets as an illegal.

  Turning from his paperwork to his laptop, a quick search of local missing persons reports didn’t reveal any trace of her, and having a first name alone was not enough information to start an investigation.

  He found himself quite unable to do any of the parish busywork. The words and numbers swam meaninglessly before his eyes as he daydreamed about wicked hazel eyes and burnished red hair. She was smart, and beautiful—and troubled and in need.

  “Your job is to help her, not fantasize about her,” he scolded himself, renewing his focus, only to lose it again when a soft voice called his name.

  “Steven?”

  She was standing at the door of his office wearing nothing besides a long t-shirt that just barely fell past the top of her thighs. Lidded with sleep, her eyes were more cat-like than ever, her dark lashes contrasting strongly with her pale skin. It wasn’t just that she was pretty. It was that he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Something about her drew him in, fascinated him in ways other women didn’t. It was more than a simple attraction. There were many beautiful, well-put-together women in Sweetville. It was the aura that surrounded her. She was at rock bottom and yet she had a quiet dignity and a fierce independent intelligence that burned from her eyes like a beacon.

  “Annika,” he said. “You’re awake.”

  “Yes,” she said, looking at him with a puzzled expression. “Why else would I be standing here?”

  “True.” He cleared his throat and checked his watch. “Why don’t you go get dressed. It’s almost dinner time. Mary’s cooking.”

  “I am dressed.”

  Was she testing him? Or did she really think a shirt counted as clothing? Her long, pale legs were something of a distraction as he mulled the question over.

  “In America, it’s polite to cover your body at least to your knees.”

  “And in the Middle East, it’s polite to cover your body entirely. What is the point?”

  “My point is you should go put a skirt on,” Steven said firmly.

  She gave him an annoyed look, then turned back, hopefully to put some clothing on. Steven left the office and went to the kitchen, where Mary was preparing a roast dinner.

  “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble,” he said. “We’ve got plenty in the freezer.”

  “I wanted to. It’s a nice way to welcome Annika.”

  “Annika is a runaway I found in my car this afternoon,” he reminded himself as much as Mary. “Not a permanent addition to the household.”

  “Mm-hmm,” Mary hummed pleasantly as she tended to the potatoes.

  “Is John joining us tonight?” Steven changed the subject. There was no point arguing.

  “He’ll be here soon,” Mary said. “He’s finishing up at the station.”

  No sooner had she said the words than the front door swung open.

  “Knock-knock!” The broad frame of John Maplesworth filled the front door. He was a bear of a man, a senior police official who hadn’t seen the beat in many years, but spent a lot of time deciding policy and managing subordinates. His sandy hair was starting to thin on top, but he made up for it with a thick handlebar mustache of authority. He was wearing a dark day suit, neatly presented as usual. Mary ran to him and wrapped her arms around his thick waist.

  “Hello, sweetheart,” he said, leaning down to kiss her. “Behaving yourself?”

  “Always,” Mary beamed.

  “Hello, John,” Steven said. “Thanks for letting her come over.”

  “No problem,” John said. “You said you had a runaway?”

  �
��A Russian runaway,” Mary added. “She’s so sweet.”

  John didn’t look impressed. “A Russian runaway?”

  “She came over as a bride, but didn’t go through with the marriage,” Steven explained. “She’s stuck.”

  “Not stuck,” John replied. “She could go back to Russia.”

  “I don’t think she considers that an option.”

  John gave him a dour look, but did not say anything else. They had been friends for many years, and though they did not agree on a lot of things, they respected one another enough to know when to keep their opinions to themselves. Steven kept his mouth shut when John talked about hunting and John repaid the favor when Steven talked about the various charities he was involved with. John was not a charity sort of person. He was a pulling oneself up by the bootstraps, railing against welfare, voting for elephants, authoritarian sort of person.

  They also had plenty in common. The belief in a need for strong leadership, for one, and a sense of responsibility for others for two. John had spent the better part of his life scraping ill-doers off the streets and Steven had devoted his time to motivating those in his care to do better. They had two different perspectives, but the same primary concern.

  “Beer?” Steven asked.

  “Please.”

  * * *

  Annika hesitated in the hallway. She’d put a skirt on and she was glad she had, for in the interim someone new had arrived. She only saw the back of his head and his shoulders, but she already didn’t like him. He was too broad, too wide, too fat, and American. Like the man she’d come to meet, the man who’d turned out to be nothing like he’d pretended to be online.

  The man Annika was supposed to meet was twenty-eight years old, a professional with his own home and a sports car. In his pictures he’d looked handsome. A man with a full head of dark hair and brown eyes. A lot like Steven Soames actually looked. She’d become quite fond of the man who sent her the nice emails, who told her how much he was looking forward to making her his wife and how happy she would be with him. For months, Annika had built up a picture of the life she would lead when she reached America, and the man who was rescuing her from her drab, dour, and deprived existence in Russia.

  It had all fallen apart the moment she set foot on US soil. The man who had met her at the airport was at least fifty, three hundred pounds, and smelled of cheese. He owned a mid-sized sedan and lived in a noisy, rented apartment. He was a liar. A liar who stole her passport, told her to ‘get over it’ and wanted to have sex within hours of meeting. He was grabby and greasy and she’d only barely fought him off before running away.

  “Annika?” Steven stepped around the corner and gave her a reassuring smile. “We’re about to eat, but first, come meet John. He’s Mary’s husband.”

  Hearing their conversation, the man named John stood up and turned around. She realized she’d made a mistake in judging him so quickly. He was nothing like the man Annika had come to marry. He wasn’t fat, he was just… huge.

  “Hello, Annika.”

  He didn’t smile. Neither did she. He was looking at her with an analytical gaze, taking her apart piece by piece. She was doing the same. She reached her conclusion before he did.

  “Police,” she said. “You are police.”

  “Impressive,” John said. “I’m not wearing a uniform or a badge. Who told you I was in the police?”

  Annika didn’t answer the question. She did the only thing she knew how to do. She ran.

  “Annika, wait!” She heard Steven behind her, following her. Gaining on her. And there was nowhere to run. There was just the house. The pink bedroom. The bedspread, which she dove under. “Annika, it’s okay,” Steven said, his baritone breaching the comfortable barrier. “You’re safe.”

  “You asked police here. To take me.”

  “No. I didn’t,” he assured her. “John’s a friend. Mary’s husband. He’s not going to take you anywhere.”

  “But I am runaway…”

  “You came here on a marriage visa. You decided not to marry the man who got it for you. That doesn’t make you a criminal, Annika. Trust me.”

  Trust him. Annika wasn’t inclined to trust anyone, but she’d been trusting Steven from the moment she’d gotten into his car and he’d yet to let her down. Maybe she could trust him on this too.

  “John isn’t going to throw you behind bars, or turn you over. He’s just here for dinner. That’s all.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.” He lifted up the corner of the coverlet and smiled in at her. “Mary has been cooking for hours. I think it’s going to be good.”

  Having been lured out from under the covers, Annika sat at Steven’s table and chewed on succulent roast beef while exchanging evil eyes with John. She might trust Steven, but she didn’t trust him. And judging by the way he was looking at her, the feeling was mutual.

  “Where did you land when you first got to the States, New York or San Francisco?”

  Annika shrugged. “My English…” she said. “I do not understand.”

  “It was New York, of course,” Mary said. “You think she came all the way across the country to crawl into Steven’s car?”

  “Maybe we should talk about something else instead of interrogating Annika,” Steven suggested diplomatically. “The meal is delicious, Mary. You’ve really outdone yourself.”

  “Thank you,” Mary smiled. “Do you like to cook, Annika?”

  “I like raw food,” Annika said. “Is easier.” She paused, then forced a smile. “But this is very good too.”

  “Raw food?” John snorted.

  “John…” Steven and Mary said at the same time.

  “Raw food,” Annika said. “Yes. Apples. Carrots. Sometimes, if very hungry, apples and carrots. We grew both in the commune.”

  “The commune?” John’s brick-like face was growing redder, his eyes narrower. “You lived on a commune in Russia?”

  “Da,” Annika confirmed. “We would pick apples and sing songs of greatness of Lenin and wonderfulness of communism.”

  “If you like communism so much, why don’t you go back to Russia?”

  “I make commune here,” Annika said. “I teach Americans how to live as good communists.”

  John looked at her with an indignant annoyance that went beyond mere personal dislike. She was so far under his skin it almost wasn’t funny—except it very much was. With a few well-chosen sentences, she had the big man dancing to her tune, believing what she wanted him to believe. It was a small amount of power, but she was happy to take it.

  “Annika,” Steven said smoothly. “Are you winding John up?”

  “Wind him up? Like toy?” She allowed the merest suggestion of a smile to quirk at her lips.

  Mary giggled. “She’s playing with you, John. I bet nothing she said was true.”

  “Da,” Annika admitted, taking a big bite of meat. “I study physics in Russia. At university. Not at commune.” She smirked through her mouthful as John’s color faded and his brow rose, not at her, but at Steven.

  “Looks like you have a brat on your hands.”

  “It looks like I do,” Steven agreed.

  Mary giggled into her mashed potatoes. “That was priceless,” she said. “You read him like a book.”

  “That’s enough out of you,” John growled at his wife. “See you don’t let Annika’s influence get you into trouble.”

  Annika smiled to herself and ate the rest of her dinner in relative peace. John didn’t ask anymore probing questions, instead contenting himself with a deep analysis of the Mets’ recent performance failures and a commentary on recent fiscal policy when it came to Taser allocation.

  “What say we clean up while the girls have a drink,” Steven suggested when they were finished eating. “Mary’s done enough work for one day.”

  John agreed, albeit reluctantly.

  “You’re so smart,” Mary whispered to Annika as they sipped on lemonade while Steven and John did the dishes. �
��How did you know all those things about John?”

  Annika shrugged. “I don’t know. I just notice things about people.”

  “It’s good to be observant,” Mary said. “A lot of people aren’t.”

  “A lot of people don’t have to be.”

  “True.” Mary reached around her shoulders and gave her a quick, squeezing hug. “You can trust Steven,” she said, telling Annika something she already sensed. Steven was the most naturally trustworthy person Annika had ever met. He was honest and open, strong and masculine—and he managed to be handsome even while holding a dishtowel festooned in daisies.

  “If you and Mary don’t mind,” Steven said, wiping his hands on the dishtowel. “I was hoping to talk to Annika for a bit tonight.”

  “Not at all,” John said. Mary agreed just as pleasantly. And Annika was once more swept off to a location of Steven’s choosing. This time, his office. It was a very simply furnished room that smelled of old paper and masculinity.

  “Did you enjoy dinner?” Steven sat down behind his desk, putting himself under a portrait of his lord and savior.

  “Yes, thank you.” Annika felt strange, sitting in the office with Jesus looking down at her. His painted expression seemed kindly, but disconnected, like he was wondering if he’d left the milk out.

  “I wanted to talk a little, if you’re okay with that. I still don’t know much about your situation, and I need to if I’m going to help.”

  “Okay.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  Steven looked at her askance. “Really?”

  “Twenty,” she admitted.

  “Just as well you didn’t have a sherry after dinner.”

  “I’ve been drinking since I was fourteen.”

  “I’m sure you have. You won’t here.”

  He made the statement as if he had some way of enforcing it. Annika had already seen the liquor cabinet. It was well stocked and unlocked. If she wanted a drink, she’d have one. He wouldn’t know it had happened.

  “There’s no point sitting there looking crafty, Annika,” Steven said. “I have some experience working with troubled youth.”